She shut her door tight before she knew how it turned out. She had a
good deal to do, because she was going to have to take a train that
got her away from Wallraven before John found time from his rounds
to come back next morning. Gail might have told Mrs. Hewitt--any
number of people--by this time. She did not want to see any of them
again. And she loved them all very much.
She took off her frock with slow, careful fingers, and put on a
kimono to pack in. Her trunk was against the wall. As she worked
steadily over the tissue-paper and hangers and things to be folded,
she thought she was beyond feeling anything at all, till she felt
something wet on her face, and found that she was crying silently,
without having known it in the least.
The green and silver frock--the white top-coat--that had burrs on
it, where she had gotten out by the roadside to pick some goldenrod,
and John had not gotten them all quite off--the little blue dress
with the fichu that John had said made her look as if she belonged
in a house instead of a story-book--the gray silk she had loved so,
and worn so hard it was middle-age-looking already--the brown wool
jersey suit she must travel in----
She laid this last across a chair, and tried to go on packing. That
was the frock she had worn when John came to her in the woods, and
was so kind, and so good, and told her he would let her have her
happy month.... Well, she'd had it.
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